


Pyres of a Broken Heart

by lciel



Series: The Seed that Burst into Flame [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Ciri has a temper, Cry for help, Emhyr has a temper, Emhyr needs a hug, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Gen, Geralt/Emhyr pre-slash, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, past Emhyr/Peter, pre Ciri/Morvran
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lciel/pseuds/lciel
Summary: 4th act of the series, following shortly after "Playing with Fire". This story is centred more closely on Emhyr var Emreis, and the impact the previous occurrences have on him: the curse, the loss, the betrayal - the hope. Emotion rather than politics-centric. Reading prequels is recommended, otherwise the plot-line, character development, and relationship development won't make that much sense.  If the whole series was one story, it would have the tag: slow-burn.





	1. Asunder

 

_The last days of Velen, on the River Alba near the Capital of Nilfgaard_

 

The storm was ripping up the waters all around them, swiftly turning the sea into a churning maelstrom. Higher and higher the tornado curled, darkening the sky and letting salty water rain down on the ship. He had followed her to the deck. The sailors were all shouting, running about chaotically. She stood near the bow, frightened, slowly stepping backwards as green energy crackled over her skin. Her eyes were glowing.

“Witch!” a terrified seaman hollered, running away. As much as he derided their superstition, he could not even fault the man for his fear. She was a terrifying sight to behold. The sailors did not know the gentle, silent nature of his wife. He was livid with her trickery to smuggle Cirilla off board, but equally he hated his own loss of control when he lashed out at her.

“Pavetta,” he approached her as calmly as possible, “I am so sorry, I never meant…”

In that moment the ship bucked as a wave of energy ripped through it. Wood cracked.

“I heard him!” she screeched at him, “Just now, I heard what that sorcerer called you. To Nilfgaard? How could you?” Her face was tear-stained, “How could you lie to us, all this time?”

“Pavetta, your mother…” he tried to explain that Calanthe would never have accepted a son in law who was the heir of the throne of Nilfgaard, but the boat shuddered again, and he had to hold onto the railing not to lose his footing. He was about to speak up again, stepping closer, when a horrible crunch went through the wood below his feet. Another burst of green energy flickered around Pavetta, who stepped further back.

“Go away!” she yelled, eyes ablaze with her powers, “Get away from me!”

“Pavetta, please, you have to control…” he never got to finish the sentence as the deck between them burst and a crack ran from starboard to larboard.

“Please come here – now!” he yelled, extending his hand as the bow of the ship slowly broke away. Wood cracking, ropes straining, he watched in horror as the bow was partially dragged towards the sea, water bursting quickly into the widening gap in the wood. Pavetta was holding onto the forestay, panic on her face.

“Duny…” her lips formed, and something in her gaze towards him broke. “ _Emhyr_ ” she said instead, her bitter voice barely audible over the wind.

“Pavetta, please – it does not matter, just please take my hand!” he tried to reach for her, but where she stood she was too far away. Pleadingly he stretched his arm as far as it would go, but she just saw through him with a strangely empty expression, unmoving. Then the forestay ripped with a loud snap, for a second she stared right into his eyes, terrified, before the bow of the boat was violently torn in the waves. Where she had stood a second ago, there was nothing but angry water. His legs gave out as he clung to the railing. Somebody dragged at his shoulders: “Emhyr. Emhyr…”

 

He awoke with a gasp, grappling for something to hold onto as the ground swayed below him. His hands found traction on something soft. Blinking, he saw his fingers clenched around the muscular upper arm of a man. Disoriented, he raised his eyes to look into the frowning face of the witcher. Averting his gaze, he closed his eyes in a feeble attempt to still his racing pulse and breathe. The warmth under his hand steadied him, and only reluctantly let he go of the man. To this pathetic state he had been reduced. The magic upon him was broken, they had told him, yet the night terrors kept haunting him relentlessly. Like a scared child, he craved the assurance of another to tell him the demons were all in his mind. He craved that lie like a moth the flame. Leaning back on the pillows of his seating on the Imperial Barque, he tried to quell the nausea and weakness in his limbs. From his position under the baldachin, he could see the blue waters of the Alba rushing by as the oars dipped into the river steadily. On a padded bench across from him, built into the u-shape of the quarterdeck, he found his daughter’s light mop of hair peeking out of a red blanket. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as the boat left White Water, and he had watched the witcher in envy as he had gently tucked the blanket around her.

The sun was only slightly overcast, yet he could not shake the sense of a coming storm out of his head. Further towards the bow, Rideaux was talking to Meara. The guards on board, he had not failed to notice, were selected among the agents in the master spy’s employ, rather than the Impera Brigade. It had taken him more than two weeks to recuperate sufficiently to return to the capital. In the meantime Lieutenant var Attre had taken the command of the guard while investigations into the loyalty of the men were underway. So far the rot of disloyalty appeared confined to the uppermost ranks of the Impera Brigade. According to the news Rideaux had brought, together with their means of transport, General Voorhis had taken control of the Senate in the interim created by the absence of Cirilla and Emhyr himself. The abdication, while irreversibly accepted by the vows of fealty made to his daughter, would not come into full effect until the crowning of the new Empress and Emperor. Until then he would remain as acting ruler of Nilfgaard. The High Command of the Military had sheathed the swords for the time being, having come to some kind of compromise with the Guild to await their return to the capital. Hard negotiations were to be anticipated; difficult not in the least because no one had any reason left to please him in the long run. They would already be turning to Morvran Voorhis, seeking his favour - or seeking his life. The sorceresses Fringilla Vigo had not been seen since the day of the Senate meeting, and Yennefer of Vengerberg was said to be prowling her tower in a terrible mood. Twisting the empty spot where his signet ring was supposed to be resting on his finger, he pondered how quickly, given a chance, some of his most trusted confidants had turned against him. Everything he had built for years seemed to be falling apart around him; the broken pieces coming to reconstruct the world in yet unknown forms and colours. He had faced such situations before – yet now, for the first time since his initial grasp for the crown, he was afraid.

Under his watchful gaze his daughter shifted in her blankets. Careful not to disturb her, he rose to sit closer and observe her face in slumber. From the first time he had held her as a babe, she had been a miracle. But after the loss of Pavetta, it felt in retrospect, he had closed his heart to the memories of before. Only vaguely and in the distance could he recall the little girl toddling after her mother as she visited him in his study in Cintra. It had been the first time he had witnessed her walk. He could not remember when she had started to speak, nor how it sounded when she called him papá.

Yet he had recognised her immediately that day in Stygga castle, so many lost years later. To his terror, she had been nothing like her mother, apart from the colours of her hair and eyes. No, he had not found Pavetta in her face, as he had hoped in the secrecy of his heart. He had found himself in her. And in her tearful, scared eyes he had seen the reflection of the monster the witcher had called him. His intentions for the future had been shaken away with every reverberation of every tear that had rolled down her face. He could not bear to see himself like that: as the man who bent her to his will, as the man who tore her family apart for power. All his excuses were torn away, leaving him confronted with himself. The only possible act had been to send her back to the witcher and sorceress. Only later, in the privacy of his tent, had he allowed the horror to spill forth from the gates she had battered open in his soul. And for the first time in years, he had allowed himself to weep for the life and family he had lost, twice already. The sensation had been cathartic. When the war had been decided at Brenna, his army overwhelmed, he had accepted it with eerie calm. For the first time in years, the need to conquer, to possess, seemed to leave his heart. He had hoped that the marriage to Becca would soothe the wounds reopened by the memory of his lost wife. Unlike his daughter, the false Queen of Cintra shared the quiet and polite demeanour of Pavetta. But in those month of fleeting peace, other creatures buried in the depth of his soul had come to the fore, and he had found himself filled with dread and euphoria when they rose into the light.

The Emperor’s gaze lifted from his daughter onto the river. Emhyr remembered noticing the young emissary at court, all those years ago. He remembered noticing him like a flitter of sunlight that suddenly blinds the eye, reflecting from piece of metal, or water surface, before a cloud shifts and the flash of light is gone as fast as it came. He saw him past a window, laughing at something another said; standing in the crowd of the ballroom, eyes burning; languishing on a bench in the grand gardens; and then, sweaty and jubilant, riding his horse back from a little race amongst the courtiers, one day in summer. The light material of his shirt had stuck to his chest, the forehead shining in perspiration as he had jumped off his horse to receive some hastily pleated laurels. With a victorious smile, he had bowed to the nobles gathered for the leisurely pastime, when the Emperor’s arrival had hushed the young people. That day, Peter had received his laurel crown from Emhyr himself. Unseen to the onlookers around them, the Emperor’s heart had stuttered at the fiery passion in the dark eyes of the young man who had looked up to him from his kneeling position. In that moment his thoughts had wandered to the listlessness of his marriage bed, and equally of the stolen moments in taverns, barns, forest cabins – memories of a different life, a life away from permanent scrutiny and moral imperatives that came with the chain of office. The life of a man, less human, on the perpetual verge of precariousness; and yet a life that had a pulse, that knew want, and need, and satisfaction.

Some sliver of his thoughts must have reached his face that day, for the young emissary kept appearing around him ever more often, eyes glimmering as if they shared a secret. It had been a terrible risk, but he had spent several nights sleepless, turning in his sheets, mad with lust. One morning, at the verge of his resilience, he had sent a servant to find the young man and invite him for a private audience. The personal gardens had been cleared of unwanted witnesses, and lounging furniture provided, together with a low table full of food. Conversation had been light and polite at first, yet from the start their expressions had conveyed no doubt. Emhyr had invited the young man – Peter – to the pools, and once they had found themselves behind doors, clothes had fallen quickly. The young man’s touch had been a revelation; a sensation like breaking through the surface of a frozen lake into the heat of a firestorm. The first weeks of their couplings had been intense, furiously passionate.

With the time, their passion had calmed, and there had been more opportunity for conversation. Peter was smart, well-educated, and talented. He had an eye for detail, a strategic mind. Above all, he was ambitious. That their relation benefitted Peter was no secret between them; it certainly was no secret to the court gossip. Emhyr indulged the young man’s drive. Throughout the years, the court had quietly accepted a man of humble origins at the Emperor’s side. Peter was proving his worth. Their arrangement was mutually beneficial. He had not expected it to last as long as it did, nor the more tender emotions that had grown between them. Perhaps he had not dared to hope. But a paramour became a confidant, a supporter, an irreplaceable agent in the architecture behind the Emperor’s power. When Peter had asked his approval to marry the widowed Viscountess of Daerlan, he had given the union his blessing. It had elevated the man into the ranks of the nobles, and assured his status more independently of Emhyr’s personal favour. Despite having his own lands to rule, Peter had remained in the capital, taking over the position of the chamberlain from an ageing Mererid. Their respective duties shortened the time they could find with another, and the relationship changed. Perhaps, Emhyr mused, it matured. Some of the spark may have dimmed over time, but the companionship grew. After a lifetime of neglecting attachments, he had come to treasure the one he had left all the more.

‘What troubles you?’ the wry voice of the chamberlain seemed to ask him.

Emhyr blinked heavily for a moment. ‘I miss you’, he admitted to the voice in his mind, ‘I cannot imagine the court without you in it’.

The imaginary Peter curled a hand around his, thumb caressing over the knuckles. Somewhat more boldly, he lifted the Emperor’s hand to breathe a kiss to it.

‘She is yet asleep?’ Peter wondered, tilting his head into Cirilla’s direction. Emhyr nodded, gazing back at his sleeping daughter. She snored just very faintly, which made him smile. A pang of sadness blossomed in his heart as he regarded her peaceful mien.

‘You are conflicted about her presence?’ Peter asked knowingly.

“I am,” he allowed tentatively, after a moment of consideration. She would need him in the storm she was sailing into, and he was terrified of failing her all over again.

~*~

The house in Vicovaro was luxurious. She stepped over the threshold into a spacious reception room. Everything was silent. The emptiness of the room suggested that Fringilla was not at home, just as she had expected. Drawing a green metal box from her pocket, she unlocked it with a small key she had carried on a chain around her neck. The box, no larger than the palm of her hand, sprung open. She could immediately feel the dark, crackling magic of the geas. It was a disk, made of red wax, infused with the blood of a mage. The seal of the Emperor was pressed into it. She pressed a finger onto it, muttering a spell, and waited.

The portal opened within seconds, and a frantic Fringilla jumped out of it.

“Yennefer,” she stammered, uncertainty on her face, “What – what is this all about?”

The Sorceress Supreme smiled pitifully at her. She felt no elation at doing what was necessary. Lifting the geas into both gloved hands, she saw Fringilla’s eyes widen in horror.

“Yennefer, what in the name of – no please, whatever I can do…” she begged, but there was nothing she could have offered. With a sharp movement of her hands, Yennefer broke the wax and immediately Fringilla began to scream, dropping to the floor.

Watching the other twitch dispassionately, she pronounced the sentence: “As by my right and duty as Sorceress Supreme of Nilfgaard, protector of the Emperor, I execute the verdict placed upon you for the murder of Demawend. You have been convicted for regicide, the execution of the verdict adjourned on the condition of impeccable loyalty and good behaviour. Your complicity in the recent attack on the Emperor has been established by several witnesses. As such, it is within my duties to carry out the execution. You have been sentenced to lose your power, and by breaking this geas, your magic must burn.”

The stench of urine reached her nose while Fringilla continued to convulse on the floor. Burning the magic out of a mage was a terrible thing to do, but in this case there was no other possibility.

“Ghar aespar daerienn, deireádh esse veloë,” she murmured over her suffering sister, gathering up the power that was oozing out of the sorceress. She focussed it into the spell. With a sharp crackle of black energy zapping through the room, Fringilla stilled. Heaviness settled over Yennefer’s pounding heart.

“She succumbed to the sentence,” she murmured, as to reassure herself about what had happened: “It happens sometimes, when the magic is torn out of a mage. The heart gives in. There is nothing that can be done.”

She levitated the motionless body into a nearby chair, where it remained seated upright as if alive. From a vitrine she picked up a goblet, filling it with a fluid from a vial on her belt. Tilting her head back, she carefully poured some of the liquid down the other woman’s throat. Then she placed the goblet into Fringilla’s hand. Snapping her fingers, the magic released and Fringilla crumbled to the floor in roughly the same spot where she had first lain, the goblet falling from her hands.

As a last act, Yennefer knocked over a candle by the curtained window. Then she left the house, locking the door behind her. Her horse was waiting a few minutes away, tied to a tree. It would take ages to ride from Vicovaro to Vizima, and all the way back to Nilfgaard, but she could not risk a portal being detected.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ghar aespar daerienn, deireádh esse veloë” – elder speech, roughly: Word shoot the sorceress, the end will be quick.


	2. Close to Home

_The last day of Velen, 1285_

 

The sad man was back. She had seen him walk into the palace, peeking through the legs of the tall people who had clapped upon his return. The witcher and his ash-blonde girl were there as well, together with some other people Sara did not recognise. At the entrance of the palace, a man is fancy armour and feathers on his helmet welcomed them.

Triss, who refused to leave her alone anywhere after Corinne had been found murdered, had made Sara join the crowds to see the Emperor and his daughter return. Sara wanted to go back to Novigrad, after all she had done a lot of horrible work to keep their house. Maybe Corinne would come back to haunt it properly. Maybe Johnny would move in instead. He had been trying to reach her lately. But Triss had said they had to wait and speak to the sad man and his daughter. So she waited, sad, bored and annoyed, until it was time for their audience.

It had taken another two days after the return of the sad man for them to be able to talk. The men with the big black shields had picked them up from their small room, and escorted them into a garden. The sad man was sitting on a stone bench under a tree, and the witcher and the ash-blonde woman were with him. Sara waited until Triss was done curtsying very deeply.

“Hello Sara,” the woman said, “do you remember me? I am Ciri.”

“I remember,” she tilted her head, “you are his daughter, and you have a complicated relationship.”

Beside her, Triss winced. The sad man looked at her with a funny face. She remembered now that he was a very serious, unimaginative person. Somebody who could never see the fun in a bad situation. Somebody who was scared to be scared.

“I apologise,” she huffed, looking up to Triss for confirmation. Triss seemed a bit pale, urging her on with her eyes. “I,” Sara contemplated, “tried to make your nightmares more fun, given that we were both kept in this rather unfortunate situation, but I can acknowledge that between us we have a very different sense of humour.”

The sad man’s eyebrows rose, while the ash-blonde woman started laughing so hard she had to bite her hand. The witcher, too, was grinning just a little bit.

“What she means to say is,” Triss started to ramble, to Sara’s annoyance, but the sad man lifted his hand and she stopped immediately.

“I only have a few questions”, the sad man said in a deceptively mild voice, “about your role in this latest… situation.” The then proceeded to ask Sara who she had worked for, and why. Unlike some others, at least, he seemed to be able to appreciate the importance of keeping one’s home. She told him about the dark and fair-haired witches, Fringilla and Keira, who had offered her a deal in Novigrad: she would keep a man asleep in his nightmares, for a few days, perhaps weeks, while they would buy the house for Corinne and her. She had agreed, trying to do something nice for Corinne after their argument, and also because she understood that human’s thought property laws were a necessary precondition for living somewhere. She did not fail to tell the sad man her opinion on this as well. Sara had then been brought into the bog, staying with the nasty old crone until the woman named Becca had arrived. They had given her a hair, one that belonged to the sad man, and she had done her work as agreed, until the fight in the bog had happened.

“This Becca, describe her to me?” the sad man had asked suddenly.

“That won’t be necessary,” Ciri interrupted, “we identified her.” The sad man looked at her in urgency, and she nodded uncomfortably. As far as Sara could tell, mentioning Becca had made him even sadder.

“We found Becca”, Ciri explained, “she is in a save place. Sara, what happened after we came to fight the crone?”

Sara recounted how she had run away to hide in the bog, but then gone back to find the puppet with the hair. She was not somebody to break a contract, especially because the witches had insistent on a geas to make sure the agreement was kept. When the witches had returned to pick her up, they had gone through a portal to Fringilla’s house. It had been nice there, even though it was a bit too warm for her tastes. Then, she finished, they had waited a few more days, until Fringilla had said it was time to go, and they had appeared in the big house full of people, where she had met Ciri.

“Thank you for telling us,” Ciri acknowledged, turning to her father, “is there anything else you need to know?”

He gave her a funny look, then shook his head: “Sara may go, but I would like to know how Miss Tilly became involved.”

The witcher started to speak. Sara did not bother to listen to the explanation, since she already knew what had happened. The witcher had gone to find an expert on dream magic … bla, bla… this other woman who came to visit Corinne … bla, bla… Instead she wandered off to look at the garden. There were nice flowers she thought she could make a new crown for herself of. She was surprised when somebody started to shout in rage. It was the young woman. Crawling back out of a bush, she ran back to see what was happening.

“Ciri”, the witcher said her name, over and over, extending his hand as the ash-blonde paced with a very angry face. Sara looked at the sad man. He still sat on the stone bench, almost unmoving. His face looked grim, but not surprised.

“She can’t – I don’t believe you!” Ciri cried, and shoved away from the witcher. Sara poked the sad man in the leg, and he looked at her with a frown.

“What did he say that Ciri is upset about?” Sara asked.

The sad man did not reply at first. She climbed onto the bench next to him. He did not seem to appreciate sharing his space, but he did not defend it either. Together, they watched as Ciri stormed off and Geralt spoke to Triss in low tones.

“I do have one more question after all”, the sad man spoke up again. “The first woman who came to visit Corinne to ask about dream magic, was that the same one who took you away, Fringilla Vigo?”

“No, a different one,” she said with certainty, “She smelled like lilac and gooseberry.”

His face turned even graver then, and he sighed deeply, closing his eyes as if in pain. Sara felt a bit sorry for these humans with their complicated relationships.

 “Sometimes live is like licking snails through a cloth,” she offered eventually, patting his leg.

 “Indeed,” he replied, getting up. She watched him walk away to talk to the witcher. Perhaps, she thought, it was best to leave them to their own troubles.

“Can you take me home now?” she asked Triss, who looked after the Emperor briefly, then nodded. A portal was opened.

Finally!

~*~

“Should you not follow her?” he wondered, addressing the witcher. His daughter had long disappeared from view; where to, he could not tell. It was rather a specialty of hers.

“No, she needs some time to cool off,” Geralt dismissed the idea. He filed that bit of information away for later use.

“You appear certain in your accusation,” he tested, intending to find out the logic behind the witcher’s thoughts.

Geralt sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and unceremoniously slumping back onto the stone bench. The Emperor regretted slightly that he gave the man the right to sit in his presence for life. To his credit, Emhyr had been planning for that life to end within hours of making the concession. The witcher had seated himself at one end of the bench, which left an ambiguous space beside him that could be interpreted as a non-too-subtle invitation. Emhyr _chose_ to accept it, playing along with this careful truce they seemed to be upholding for the last days. Sitting side by side, they engaged in competitive silence.

“Well?” he grunted after a while.

“Hm?” the witcher startled. Emhyr refrained from wincing at the other man’s lack of focus.

“Your assessment of Yennefer,” Emhyr rearticulated his expectations toward the following communication in more precise terms.

The witcher sighed, rubbing his face: “I think she is more deeply involved than Ciri hopes,” he paused, driving Emhyr half-mad with his dillydallying. The Emperor was about to make his frustration felt, when the witcher finally continued to express his thoughts: “Rideaux is right. There are several people who would have an interest in taking you out of the picture, but only one person who knew with certainty that Ciri was alive before we came to Nilfgaard _and_ knew you were planning to hand over the power to Voorhis.”

“And is that enough to condemn her?” Emhyr wondered, curious about the witcher’s reasoning.

“No. There is more. The curse, the whole unfolding – it simply fits too well. Yen sent Ciri to Triss with exactly the means to locate the crone, an old enemy of Ciri. Somebody Ciri would chase immediately – dangerous, but not enough to truly threaten her. Then there is the fact that the curse did not simply kill you, which with the magic in place could have been accomplished just as easily. Instead it just endangered you seriously, in a manner painful enough to appeal to Ciri’s consciousness; enough to keep her engaged. And furthermore Yen gave me the idea to seek out Corinne Tilly in Velen. I thought it was the alcoholism that made Corinne nervous around me, but now I think somebody but pressure on her all the time to lure me in. If I had not followed Corinne’s instructions, I would not have gotten caught in the magic, and,” the witcher hesitated briefly.

“My fate would not have been enough bait for Cirilla to walk into the trap,” Emhyr added, swallowing down the jealousy that rose like bile at the simple truth. The witcher had the rare moment of tact not to rub it in further.

“The point is,” Geralt concluded, “that the number of necessary coincidences is too great for them to truly be coincidental. And the only person I can think of who could have predicted Ciri’s and my steps to that extent is Yennefer. She knew all the people who came to be involved at crucial junctions. She was around to see what we were doing, she could react and nudge us further. Nobody else was close enough.”

The last statement was spoken in bitterness. So the witcher felt the burning sting of betrayal as well, Emhyr thought, a second thing they shared in these days. He also came to the grudging insight that he might have underestimated the man’s tactical intelligence.

“The oneiromancer’s sudden death would make sense, if Yennefer is covering her tracks,” Emhyr added.

The witcher nodded: “I examined Corinne’s cell and body. No wounds, no traces, no witnesses. This was not the work of Matsen’s men, but some very foul magic.”

Emhyr nodded with finality, before sharing his latest information: “The godling identified Yennefer as the sorceress who visited Corinne Tilly before the curse was cast. This evidence confirms her involvement in this conspiracy prior to your return from Skellige.” He watched as the witcher closed his eyes in defeat.

Geralt averted his gaze to the ground, face tensing in pain. “Then it is true, she betrayed us,” the man accepted in a low voice.

‘ _Us_?’ the Emperor wondered in his mind. Who was us? He was about to rise, but something made him hesitate. Maybe it was the pitiful bent of the witcher’s back; maybe it was simply his own lingering exhaustion. Resting his elbows on his knees, he allowed himself a brief respite from his duties. For another few minutes, they sat without a word. He was tempted to describe the atmosphere as companionable. Then the witcher spoke again.

“My condolences… for Peter.”

A cold pang settled over his heart.

“I heard… you were close,” the witcher continued awkwardly.

He could not bear to hear it: “Enough!” he hissed, rising from the bench. He had barely managed to supress thoughts of Peter for most of the day, and his ability to focus on the problems at hand was reaching its limits. The witcher had risen as well, a placating gesture half-aborted. His cat-eyes were narrowed in pity as he watched the Emperor’s chest heave. Furious with the witcher and his own uncontrolled reaction, Emhyr stalked away.

Leaning against the door of his bedchamber, which he had just slammed behind himself, he let himself slump to the floor. His gaze fell on the empty bed, where he remembered them spending the last day of the last year with a few bottles of excellent wine and a collection of horrible poetry that the Duchess of Toussaint had sent as a gift. Peter’s tipsy laughter as he recited the utter drivel in a high-pitched voice still echoed from the walls. What a silly thing to have done. He tried to blink away the tears, and failed. And thus did Emhyr var Emreis met the end of the year 1285 alone in his chambers, painfully sober, and utterly disconsolate.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emhyr allows Geralt to sit at the end of book 5, in Stygga castle, when he reveals his plans for Ciri to an injured Geralt, who in response calls him a monster.


	3. Bonfires

_1 st Saovine, 1286_

She teleported to her favourite thinking spot overlooking the whale graveyard, yet something about the ledge did not provide her with the usual peace. The ocean was rough that day, and a cold wind tore at the trees. In fact, she had not even sat down properly when she heard hurried steps breaking through the shrubs. Several druids burst from the treeline, Mousesack at their front. When he saw Ciri, he relaxed visibly and called the others off.

“Uncle Mousesack,” she greeted him nervously, scrambling to her feet to give him a hug.

“This is not a good place to talk, why don’t we return to the clearing?” he urged her, and she allowed him to lead her back. Walking through the misty woods, she noticed that he seemed on edge.

“Has something happened here in our absence?” she wondered, and he sighed without slowing his walk.

“Yes, I am afraid something terrible has happened. The woman Becca is dead.” He did stop at that, turning to her with an apologetic face. “The evening you left, she did not return to the camp. I sent somebody to look after her the moment the sun was coming down, and he only found her corpse several yards down the cliff.”

“Oh…” she said, speechless. After Corinne, another person with important knowledge was gone. Could this be a coincidence?

“We found no traces of struggle, but a strange magical aura was palpable on the ledge.” Mousesack frowned, explaining their findings in more detail as the two of them walked on. The body had already been burned, rather than buried, in respect of southern custom. She would take the urn with her.

“So you think she died on the ledge, rather than through the fall?” Ciri concluded. The druid nodded.

They left the forest behind them. On the clearing a large pyre for the annual bonfire had been erected. A substantial number of visitors was already gathering at the foot of the hill.

“And what happened to you?” Mousesack asked, “Where is Geralt?”

“Let’s talk somewhere more private,” she insisted, and they went back to the caves. There she told him all she knew about the curse, and the events that had transpired in the last weeks. He eyed her with growing sadness over the rim of his goblet. When she had finished, he squeezed her hands.

“My dear child,” he shook his head. Huffing, he leaned back. “The Empress of Nilfgaard!”

“Hm-hm,” she muttered, taking a long sip of ale.

“If you ever need my council, be sure to have it. As for now, I assume you will need to return to palace very soon,” he considered, blinking at her confused face. “Ciri,” he admonished at last, “Saovine is one of the most important festivals of the year, for the faith of the Great Sun as much as in the northern kingdoms and isles. As their queen and future high priestess, you must attend.”

Another thing she had not considered. Festivals. Rituals. Her people. Dizzily, she nodded.

“Thank you for reminding me,” she offered silently, and the druid gave her shoulder hearty squeeze, before she teleported back to the palace. By the time Mererid and the maids had found suitable garments for her, and explained the ceremony in detail, Ciri was grateful she only needed to stand in the first row and do nothing that year. She felt ready to cry. But there was no time. Her father was busy with his preparations, so she simply left the urn in her chamber. Before she quite knew what was happening, the guards had escorted her to the temple.

~*~

He felt the sudden silence of the people behind him like a foreboding tingle. Then she came to stand next to him, in the very front of the crowd waiting at dusk in the square next to the Great Temple. The ceremony was about to start, but the Emperor had yet to emerge. From the corner of his eye, he allowed himself to look at her. She was staring straight ahead, obviously nervous. Her hands were elegantly clasped in front of her, shoulders straight. The whites of her dress suited the occasion. In fact, she looked the perfect part. That is, apart from the long scar marring her cheek. It did not fit the picture of a princess. He was grateful for it, though – the scar reminded him that she was a warrior rather than a maiden. Not that he would ever forget that fact again, not after seeing her fight the monsters in the bog.

In that moment, she looked at him. Her eyes were green and narrow. He inclined his head carefully in greeting. Her mouth tensed, but she briefly inclined her head as well. Glancing around frequently, she looked lost to him. Several bystanders were observing them openly, beginning to whisper. He cleared his throat lowly, and minutely offered his arm. She looked at it, and him, with a gauging expression. Then, hesitantly, she curled her hand around the crook of his arm, and leaned in just a bit. He exhaled when the arrival of the Emperor on the temple steps heralded the beginning of the ritual.

When finally the sermon was over and the bonfire lit, he shifted his weight subtly. Yet now she held onto his arm, almost painfully so. He noted her looking around again, perhaps searching for somebody. It occurred to him then that she would barely know anybody in attendance. He supposed her reaction to the crowd made sense. Looking around, he spotted some acquaintances of his.

“May I introduce you to some of my closer associates in the capital?” he discretely suggested to her. Straightening her back, she nodded. Arm in arm, they crossed the square, illuminated by the bonfire. Several younger nobles were standing in a small group, conversing. They made a gap for them in their circle as they noticed their approach.

“May I present to you my beautiful betrothed, the Crown Princess of Nilfgaard, Cirilla var Emreis,” he announced, and they bowed and curtsied, “and to you, Cirilla, these are Duke Jan Calveit, Lady Thalia Congreve, Eduart Leuvaarden, and over there, the Ladies Rosa and Edna var Attre.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Cirilla nodded, an off expression on her face. Mustering the twins, she added: “Geralt gave sword-fighting lessons to one of you, did he not?”

Edna began to laugh, while Rosa blushed profoundly. The ice seemed somewhat broken, Morvran mused, as he observed the animate conversation between Cirilla and the twins. The princess had lost some of her tension, and was grinning about a story Edna was sharing to the superficial embarrassment of her sister. Her blonde hair was sparkling like silver and gold thread in the firelight, eyes shining merrily. Jan raised his voice to his ear: “My congratulations, I believe,” his old friend said offhandedly, and only then did the general realise he had not replied to his own conversation partner for quite a while.

He did escort her back to the palace properly that evening. When he said his goodbyes, she wetted her lips, looking away. “Do you really find me beautiful, or were you just polite?” she asked abruptly, looking almost angry a second after.

Caught off guard, he was unsure what motivated the question. She swallowed visibly, still averting her face. It occurred to him then that she was presenting the scar to him. Very gently, he left the briefest caress on her marred cheekbone.

“I genuinely do find you beautiful,” he admitted, taking a step back. She flinched a little, not at his touch, but at his words. They stared at each other awkwardly.

“Thank you for the evening,” he offered eventually, “and goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” she curtsied quickly, and left him standing alone. Furrowing his forehead, he watched her pass the guarded doors. She _was_ beautiful – and completely frustrating.

~*~

The Emperor found himself surrounded by guards all evening, which was indispensable given recent events. On the upside, only a few select courtiers received access to him. Glancing around between those audiences, he spied Rideaux on the look-out from the higher ground of the temple stairs. He even spotted the witcher once, looking terribly uncomfortable in his doublet, scanning the crowd with narrowed eyes. Following the man’s gaze, he saw her by the fire. She stood out in her white dress: radiant and beautiful. But then she briefly turned, and he realised with a pang how tense and scared she looked on Morvran’s arm.

His anger at the sorceress flared again. Yet at the end of the day, he had to acknowledge bitterly, his own weaknesses at various points had equally contributed to bringing his daughter into this situation. With a sudden bout of helplessness, he wished she had never come to break the curse. Then at least they would both be at peace. But it was too late now. She had sacrificed her happiness for a man whose life was empty of the same, he thought then: What a poor trade to make.

 

 


	4. Temperaments

_2 st Saovine, 1286_

The next day she found her father in the parlour, bent over ever more documents and surrounded by advisors. Uncertain of her welcome, she waited by the open door. When he noticed her, he hesitated briefly, then waved her closer.

“A second chair for my daughter, if you please,” he made a servant bring a chair, which was positioned at his side behind the desk. She sat obediently, and observed him for a while. The current matter of discussion involved a land dispute in Daerlan. The family of the deceased viscount appeared to lay claim on his lands, whereas his wife’s children from a former marriage insisted on the same. There was also the question to which family the deceased’s remains should be sent from the capital. Emhyr seemed utterly displeased about the issue, and decided ultimately that the children of the wife should keep the land and inter the remains.

An advisor made the hazardous suggestion to address the matter of appointing a new chamberlain, when Emhyr told everyone to get out, voice utterly chilling. Ciri was about to leave, when he stopped her with a small motion.

“Not you.”

He leaned back in his chair with a groan, closing his eyes for a few moments. She cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Is it a bad time?” she asked, wondering if telling him about Becca now was a bad idea. He opened his eyes and blinked at her, a slight frown deepening the lines around his eyes and mouth.

“It was inappropriate to disappear as you did yesterday; unbecoming of an Empress,” he spoke in measured tones without looking at her.

It made her feel stupid and angry. “I went to get Becca,” she sought to legitimate her disappearance.

His frown tightened: “Then were is she?” Something on her face must have told him the truth. For a second she thought she saw pain flare in his dark eyes, before he turned away and swallowed.

“I left her with Mousesack, since she – she was in pretty bad shape when we found her with the crone,” she began, realising that she was probably making no sense.

“From the beginning, if you please,” he injected, and she began to recount, this time in chronological order, how Triss and she had located the crone, and been overwhelmed by drowners and hags. He listened with a stony expression as she mentioned the surprising arrival of Roche and Morvran, and how she had first met the general. Her narrative stalled when describing how she found Becca, and what had occurred at Triss’ house. His gaze was unnerving, eyes flashing and mouth pressed into a thin line.

“They found her down the cliff,” she said delicately, almost done recounting the events, when he held up his hand.

“That will be enough.” His voice was chilling.

“Just, I” she added, while he gave her a warning stare. She bit her lip: “I brought back the urn, with her ashes. Shouldn’t we – bury her?”

He rose and turned away from her, hands linked behind his back. Coming to stand at the map table, he leaned forward. For a while he said nothing, and she got up as well, when he straightened without turning back to her.

“There are two more urgent matters that we need to discuss first,” he informed her stiffly, “one which is to do with the succession, the other which involves the future of Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

The conversation went downhill from there. She was not prepared at all to discuss Yennefer with him, but he pressed her to either let him deal with Yen as he saw fit, or make a decision herself. She had refused, he had pushed further. Somewhat desperate to escape his insistence, she deflected by asking him if he was afraid of magic, as Becca had told her not too long ago. His face had gone completely pale at that, and then the shouting had started in earnest. In the end, she had screamed at him that she regretted ever setting foot inside the palace. He threw her out then, and she could not have remained a second longer after seeing with guilt the unconcealed rage and raw pain of rejection in his eyes.

Once the doors banged shut behind her, she was confronted with the awkward and worried faces of the guards. Apparently their voices had carried. Wiping away an errant tear, she stormed off towards her chambers, when she turned a corner in the hallway and literally ran into another person.

~*~

Geralt, concerned, had gone after the screaming voices coming from the parlour. The culprits were easily identified, though he had never heard Emhyr yell before. The witcher was not surprised that Emhyr’s stoicism had found its master in Ciri’s spirit. He rather suspected that under the Emperor’s carefully honed self-control, a rather similar temperament was hidden. The ruckus scaring up the servants now gave him proof.

He waited at a safe distance until the voices died down and doors were slammed. Not a moment later Ciri almost ran him over. When he steadied her by the arms, she tried to hide her tears.

“Do I need to yell at him some more?” he asked her lightly. She huffed with a sniff, shaking her head.

“No,” she said decisively, looking rather upset and perhaps guilty. Knowing her as he did, he recognised her expression as anger that was directed inward, rather than at somebody else.

“Up for a spar?” he offered, and she nodded. They changed and fetched their weapons. On the green of the private garden, they battered at each other until she was well tired out, and he was slightly panting himself. Maybe a little more than slightly. Rubbing the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he plumped down on the grass where he had delivered her with a last kick. She groaned, and remained lying prone on her back, holding up a hand in surrender. He stretched out next to her, and they gazed at the blue sky.

“I think I really upset him,” she offered eventually, “and I’m not even completely sure how.”

He grunted vaguely, and she told him of Becca’s death, and then slowly about the things she had thrown at his head. When she was done with the confession, she sat up, shoulders slumped. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

“You already know that saying some of these things was purposefully hurtful,” he ventured carefully, “and that at the same time there is a good deal of issues you two will need to confront one day, if you truly want to forgive him and do this whole Empress thing. So maybe the best is to apologise to him, and give it a second go?”

She nodded with a sigh: “I’ll do that first thing tomorrow.” She turned to look at him. “Thank you, Geralt, really. For being here.” With a small yet troubled smile, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, and got up. He watched her walk away like a woman with a heavy load on her shoulders. He knew he could not carry it for her. At least she had Emhyr to see her through the Empress part. As long as the two of them did not kill each other before the week was out…

~*~

He had watched them from the window, amazed by the swiftness of their movements, the practiced grace of swords singing against each other. Any other man he would have had shot down the moment he brought a sword as close to his daughter’s skin. But with them, he could only stare with his pulse racing, reminding himself that Geralt knew her better than anyone else; had trained her from childhood. He would need to trust the witcher’s judgment how far he could push her. At last, he had finally had the opportunity to witness the extent of their skill in person. And he had to admit it far surpassed his expectations.

Duty forced him to abandon his observation all too soon, and the advisors returned to keep him up to date on today’s business. The work never stopped since his untimely absence, and the clock on the mantle had struck midnight by the time the most urgent business had been conducted. His concentration was slipping dangerously, and eventually he called it a night. Only one task was left, and he refused to let another handle it.

Mererid had procured the urn from his daughter. Now it rested on the corner of the desk. Rising from his chair gingerly, he felt every cramped muscle in his back after too much time sitting. A tension headache had annoyed him for at least three hours. He placed his hand upon the urn with a sigh, then picked it up. She would have hated the plain earthen pot. The guards wordlessly accompanied him to the temple, where he ordered them to stay behind once he set foot into the sanctum.

Here Peter had died, he thought, bleeding to death in an attempt to lure out the traitor. The stone floor was perfectly clean, not a trace of struggle left. Emhyr wondered where Reinard aep Matsen, a man tasked to protect their lives, had stabbed his lover to death, where the body must have crumbled. He wondered what Peter had last thought of, or who, what regrets he had carried with him, which wishes had been left unfulfilled.

The spiral staircase into the depth of the crypt was wide and smooth. Every few steps an archway opened into a chamber full of tombs. Torches had been lit all the way to the lowest and newest chamber, where his parents and sister were already resting. Their silent statues seemed to look at him as he placed his second wife’s ashes into an open niche under an empty dais. Her statue had been commissioned earlier, and would be erected there soon. He wished instead it was Peter who would be resting among his family, but any such action would attract unwanted questions at a time when his abilities to retain control were already severely challenged. His reliance on Morvran to establish alliances capable of reinforcing stability limited any negotiating space over the terms of the marriage, and he was running out of time and allies to change that imbalance of power. He wondered if Cirilla even remotely realised how precarious the situation was, and how urgent a decision about the fate of Yennefer needed to be made. The Lodge could be one of Cirilla’s strongest allies, but no allegiance came without cost. He had tried to explain this to her earlier, but she had clearly not understood his motivations to push the issue. Instead she had withdrawn, as she appeared prone to do, and not for the first time he seriously doubted her suitability to rule. With time, he thought despondently, she could have learned. But they did not have that luxury anymore. She had rejected him ten years ago, and he had thought he had come to terms with that. Today, he was proven wrong, when she had hurled her derision at him, and he had felt every verbal jab pierce his heart. She circumvented his defences like no other, perhaps because he could not bear to shield himself to her; perhaps, because he felt he deserved her ire; perhaps, he admitted to himself in the depth of the crypt, because suffering the pain of her rejection felt much more secure than suffering the pain of hope.

“Rest in peace,” he muttered toward the remains of the woman who had brought about so much of their current pandemonium. He had been fond of her once. But when his daughter had returned, and he had set the witcher to find her, the shame of having a wife carrying the same name had been too great. There was only space for one Cirilla var Emreis in the world, and that Cirilla was his child. He had hoped that taking Becca’s memory away would be a chance for her to live. Instead, now two of his wives had chosen death in response to his actions. First Pavetta, then Becca. He had failed them both.

 

 


	5. Shattering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter I have been heavily invested in. It would be great to get some comments how you find it, given that it's a sort of ... "important one", and I keep wondering whether others will like it as much as I do...

_Late at night, the 2 nd passing into the 3rd Saovine, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers_

 

The witcher stood indecisively in the doorway of the parlour. A nightmare he could not recall the contents of had shaken him awake late that night. Upon his ensuing sleepless wanderings, he had heard the sound of breaking glass through the closed double doors. Considering the likelihood of a threat, he had snuck a peek into the room to determine the source of the noise. Most candles had been doused, but the Emperor was still present, bowed over his map table. He was alone. Geralt could not see any shards, but the strong smell of lemon vodka implied a broken bottle somewhere.

Emhyr did _not_ present the image of a man seeking company. Yet there the witcher remained, caught in the doorway, something holding him in place. Perhaps it was the particular line of Emhyr’s shoulders, the angle at which his head was bent forward, that did not seem right. Maybe it was a hunch, a strange twinge in his gut. The medallion had lain completely still on his chest, yet somehow the witcher felt as though it _should have_ vibrated. Whatever compelled him to, he lingered. The double doors slid shut behind him with a soft click.

The Emperor had not moved. Over the crackling of the fire only his witcher senses made him aware how heavy Emhyr’s breath had become. Geralt watched in complete silence as the other man drew a dagger from his belt. It was a wicked looking weapon, long and thin. The witcher cleared his throat. Suddenly straightening, the Emperor whirled around. His face, sliding into an expression of unpleasant surprise at the sight of the unexpected company, was flushed.

“Get out!” he ordered with a hiss, obviously waiting for the witcher to leave.

Geralt slowly came closer. With a shuddering breath, Emhyr clenched his eyes shut, averting his gaze.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” the Emperor asked hollowly. He gazed at the weapon in his hand, turning the blade to catch the light differently. Something is his posture was off. Tension radiated a mile around him, yet simultaneously he seemed far away in his mind. The small hairs on Geralt’s body stood on edge.

“Seven stabs to the back and a neck wound, did you know?” Emhyr asked, his tone a mockery of idle conversation. He was still eying the blade. “Three through the lungs, two into the organs, one directly to the heart. He must have been dead before the knife left the last wound.”

“Is this the weapon that killed Peter Evertsen?” Geralt inquired, voice thick. Emhyr’s demeanour unnerved him.

The Emperor nodded thoughtfully, then turned back towards the map table. Purposefully, he placed the dagger on the surface next to him. “Your area of proficiency.” He did not offer any further indication of this thought process for a good while, standing oddly stiff and still. Then, with a long exhale, he bent his head and shoulders, hands coming to rest on the edge of the table.

“Seven stabs seem excessive, but I guess there is some poetry to a matching number,” Emhyr contemplated distantly. As if in an afterthought, he took off his chain of office and belt, and began to unbutton his long doublet. The garments were neatly folded and placed onto the map table. When he was done, Emhyr shook his head once, and lifted one hand to draw his long hair over one shoulder, revealing his bared throat. Then he returned to rest his hands on the edge of the table.

Geralt’s brain paused, eyes coming to rest on the weapon. The handle was turned towards him.

“What-” he stopped, heart skipping a beat. It could not be, he thought, yet it seemed as if… “Did you just ask me to…?” Geralt asked slowly, not comprehending. Suddenly his confusion dissipated, to be replaced by distress.

Emhyr did not respond verbally, but his shoulders tensed notably. A long moment trickled by. Then, to the witcher’s growing dread, Emhyr tipped his head just a little more to the side, exposing his neck further.

“Do it, then take Ciri and leave. _Forever_.” The Emperor’s voice was imperious, yet there was a cascading tremble in the last word. “I cannot make it right; I simply _cannot_ -,” Emhyr continued forcefully, but then his voice broke with a shaky inhale, and he fell silent, dropping his head as he breathed shallowly. Geralt noticed his knuckles turning white from the force with which Emhyr gripped the wood.

The witcher was frozen in place while his image of the Emperor splintered. Perhaps, a part of him thought, he should not have been so surprised. Not after the dreams, not after everything he had seen about Emhyr var Emreis that remained completely and absolutely hidden by the image of a cold-hearted and relentless monarch the Emperor of Nilfgaard showed the world. Yet before this moment, he had to admit, Geralt had not truly put the pieces together. He had seen the burdens the Emperor had borne; the horrors of his life, the weight of his responsibilities. In the last days, he had come to see the inside of his life enough to appreciate the strains the task of ruling brought in the everyday. But he had somehow simply assumed that Emhyr was shouldering the weight. He had seen the bulk, yet was caught unprepared to see the toll bearing it was taking on the man. The man who was so unapproachable that nobody, Geralt guessed, had truly ever seen him despair. When something could not be sorted, they all turned to him, in expectations that he had several plans up his sleeve, already half put into motion.

“Will you make me beg for it?” Emhyr’s choked voice ripped him from his reflection.

Slowly, Geralt advanced and picked up the dagger, weighing it in his hand. A seal was embossed into the hilt. It was a beautiful weapon, well made: perfectly balanced, and he noted as he drew his nail along the edge, deadly sharp. He reckoned a single hit to the heart would kill a man almost immediately. He wondered what it would be like, coming to stand behind the Emperor. He heard the other man’s pulse beating rapidly. When he did not act, Emhyr lowered his head further, almost bending over the table. A shudder went through his back.

“Please,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

The witcher let the blade drop. With a clang, it fell onto the wooden floor. For good measure, he kicked it away and with a clatter it skidded across the floor towards the fireplace, which was already covered in glass shards.

They remained frozen in their respective positions, until with an agonised groan, Emhyr straightened and turned around. He did not raise his head, and some of his hair had come loose enough to cover half of his face. Geralt swallowed.

“I cannot…” Emhyr muttered faintly, stumbling closer to the witcher. The visible part of his face was a mask of unconcealed anguish. He almost seemed to fall apart, his body suddenly trembled so much. With another teetering step, he had crossed the short distance to the witcher, and seemed to raise his hands to choke him. Geralt braced himself, but then halted his own arms in mid-air when the pair of fists twisted themselves into the top of his shirt. With a pounding heart the witcher watched as the Emperor pulled their bodies closer. Emhyr’s face was turned down still, so he could make out little more than his clenched mouth, before the man’s forehead brushed against his chin. Neither of them moved from there. Only the Emperor’s hitching breaths could be heard over the thrumming of their hearts. At the close distance, Geralt could feel the other’s erratic pulse.

The Emperor smelled faintly of rosemary, lemon vodka, and something sharp Geralt could not place. Very slowly, as if stealing a feather from a sleeping griffin, Geralt raised his hands to come to rest on the other man’s upper arms. His left ascended the smooth sleeve towards the shoulder, all the way up to curl around the exposed neck. This right crawled around Emhyr’s waist. When no adverse reaction followed, he swallowed and gingerly held on. It took another few thundering heartbeats until Emhyr’s hands loosened a fraction, before slowly dropping around the witcher’s waist. Then the Emperor’s shoulders began to shake in earnest. Geralt let go of a breath he could not remember holding. The moment the witcher tightened his grip, the arms around him tightened as well. At first there was no noise, just the recurring tremor in Emhyr’s torso. The low keening sound that eventually broke from the proud man’s chest was almost inhuman. Instinctively, Geralt tightened his hold, the hand in Emhyr’s hair guiding his head into the crook of the witcher’s neck. A choked breath was the response, followed by heart-wrenching sobs as the other seemed to full-body curl into the embrace. At a point only the witcher’s arms seemed to hold them upright.

Somehow, what felt like a good time later, they had found their way to onto the floor, the witcher leaning back against the leg of the map table, with the Emperor curled into his chest, head tucked under his chin. Exhaustion had stifled the sobs eventually, the wet spot on Geralt’s shirt cooling against his collarbone. The witcher still had his arms wrapped securely around the Emperor, one hand gently stroking over his back as they both seemed lost in thought. The silence began to stretch more noticeably, but neither seemed entirely willing to end it.

“Want to, uh, tell me about it?” Geralt offered uneasily, continuing to brush his fingers over the other man’s back.

Emhyr did not reply at first. In fact he did not react to the question at all. Geralt was vaguely relieved to drop the idea of conversation, when Emhyr swallowed against his chest. He inhaled deeply, as if readying himself to speak. But then he buried his face deeper into the witcher’s shirt, while another wave of tremors rocked through his chest. They had sat for a while longer, in which Emhyr seemed to breathe down his own emotions, until he uttered a single, rough, unexpected sentence:

“ _I loved him_.”

~*~

The words felt foreign, perhaps because he had never spoken them aloud, never verbalised to anyone the nature of their bond. Nobody had ever asked, not even Peter. Those who had to have known had pretended ignorance. It was like in the days after Pavetta’s death, when nobody could know that Duny of Erlenwald and Emhyr var Emreis were the same person. In the halls of the palace, the new Emperor was celebrated. Toasts were spoke to his name, high spirits all around. Nobody had cared to know about the man who was weeping, cries muffled by a pillow, the moment the doors of his bedchamber closed and he was alone for a few precious hours of the day. Nobody had wanted to see the agony of a man who had lost everything: the history and name of his last decade of life, his wife, his child. A man who had been murdered and reborn at his own hand, with nobody grieving for the dead man and his family, nobody even acknowledging any loss.

Exhausted to the bone, Emhyr let his eyes drop shut, making the most of the rare moment of comfort. It would disappear all too soon. Evening out his breath, he pretended to fall asleep. Maybe he truly did for a while. The witcher appeared to indulge him for a long time, but eventually he began to move. What Emhyr had not expected to happen, once the inevitable moment came, was the strong arm to remain curled around his back as the witcher began to shift his weight. Shuffling a little, he glanced up to find the other looking down on him. Heat rose to his cheeks as he struggled not to immediately lower his gaze. But whatever he thought, the witcher did not comment. Their gaze locked for another heartbeat, in which neither did move. Then Geralt shifted again and Emhyr was forced to sit up. The witcher’s hand came to squeeze his shoulder awkwardly. Then the other man stood up, offering him a hand. Emhyr took it gingerly and felt himself being drawn up easily by the witcher’s superior strength. They parted then, and Emhyr went to pick up his clothes and insignia from the table. The witcher waited for him by the doors, and without further comment followed him through the hallways.

~*~

Nobody amongst the guards in the hallway seemed to dare contemplate why the witcher followed the Emperor to his bedchamber; no one asked when Geralt emerged alone an hour later, very silently closing the door behind him.

 

 


	6. Moments of Truth

_3 rd Saovine 1286, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers_

 

It was early in the morning when she got up to do her exercises. She had kept to the routine with Geralt for the last years as a witcher, and its familiarity reassured her. By the time the sun had fully risen, she had bathed and eaten. She thanked Mererid for the lovely cup of white tea he provided every morning for her, and made her way to the parlour.

Her father was already there, sitting at his desk as if he had never left. He momentarily looked up when she entered, then went back to reading whatever he was reading. Upon closer inspection, it looked like reports on grain.

“I wanted to apologise,” she began nervously the moment he put the piece of paper away. His amber eyes met hers briefly with a calculating glance. No maybe, she thought, it was more of a questioning glance.

“Very well,” he replied neutrally, leaning back with steepled fingers. He looked a bit tired.

Her chair, as she had come to think about it, had remained next to his, so she walked around to drag it into a position where she could face him. He adjusted his seat respectively with a mild look of curiosity.

“I wanted to apologise for yelling two days ago, and for saying that I regretted being here,” she licked her lips, “I do not like the circumstances of all this,” she gestured around her, “but,” she dropped her elbows on her knees, “I said it to hurt you that day, and none of this is your fault.”

Something moved behind his eyes, but whatever it was, he kept his feelings guarded. The only response after a moment was a twitch of his mouth, then a sigh. The silence stretched.

“I also wanted to apologise for not listening to you, when you said some of these matters were urgent. Or at least,” she added, twisting her hands, “I should have told you that I was not ready to make a decision, rather than just – evade the question. I didn’t mean-” she broke off.

Her father’s hands had come forward hesitantly to still her fidgeting ones, and she looked up. His eyes were fixed on their fingers, expression unreadable. He wetted his lips, clenching his jaw: “I accept your apology, and I realise now that I should have explained more of my reasoning to you. This,” he nodded as to himself, “situation is…”

“Weird?” she tried.

He frowned: “Unprecedented, challenging, perhaps,” he hesitated briefly, “frightening, and certainly risky. And it is particularly due to the latter that we need to make the most of the time we have. Speaking of time, our esteemed guests should arrive shortly, and there is some work left for us to complete. ”

~*~

He watched them from the doorway, hunched over a document and deeply engaged in discussion. Ciri frowned and gesticulated wildly, whereupon Emhyr paused, explained, listened and gestured back. The similarity in their body language was startling: the narrowed and flashing eyes; the downward tilt of the mouth when something displeased them; the jutting of the chin when they made a point.

After bringing Emhyr to bed the previous night, Geralt had not slept a wink. He had sat in his room, staring at nothing in particular, to come to terms with the flurry of feelings scrambling in his guts. Once he had decided to lay down, the restlessness had made him toss and turn, until he eventually pushed himself off the mattress and began to exercise. A few runs around the palace had confused the guards, but tired him out enough to rest his eyes for a bit.

The thought of being the only one in the know about the Emperor’s precarious state of heart filled him with dread. Emotions were not exactly his strong suit to make sense of, and approaching a personality as complex and intelligent as the Emperor seemed to him as clever as to fight an elder vampire with a wooden sword. Emhyr’s mind being the otherworldly titan, Geralt’s emphatic capacities being the wooden sword. Or maybe a stick. A stick seemed reasonably blunt. The stick that was flung out of your grasp before something annoyed tore you to pieces. Maybe a club…

Though he supposed he had gotten Ciri through somehow, so maybe Emhyr would not be too damaged by a cautious attempt. It would require courage of an interpersonal kind that was not comparable to the courage it took to face a monster. Not the kind of courage Geralt had an awful lot of. He was unpractised in drawing on it. It was the kind of courage that got you entangled in things emotionally, and then twisted your guts when you realised your opposite thought you were an idiot. Which you probably were. But it still hurt. It was the kind of courage he had lacked when he had not contacted Yen all these years. The cowardice that let you run away and pretend you would not need to face the consequences of doing so. Denial.

The sounds of many footsteps announced the arrival of the general, followed by several important-looking figures. They made for his direction, and Geralt knew this was his cue to get away from the parlour.

~*~

 “Two-thirds of taxes will remain in Aedirn, one-third be passed on as tribute to us,” Moehoen demanded, and Morvran shook his head.

“Impossible, the agreement with Kovir is precise. A fifth in tribute, and building projects will be financed by the King of Aedirn.”

The negotiations had gone on for hours. Headway had been made in some areas, but Aedirn remained a cause for controversy. Berengar Leuvaarden was sipping on a very expensive glass of wine that Emhyr had dished up for his specific tastes. With small, shrewd eyes the chairman of the Guild of Merchants followed the exchange between the soon-to-be Emperor and the Field Marshal. Next to him, Elysia Eggebracht seemed to be nursing a slight migraine, going by the sour look on her face. Across the desk, Ciri was picking on an apple. She did not appear to follow the conversation, but occasionally he saw a glint in her eyes that suggested otherwise.

“Perhaps we should move on to other matters, and leave the Aedirn question for a day after the coronation?” Leuvaarden eventually suggested in a bored voice. Emhyr silently welcomed the proposal.

“Which brings us to that last issue”, Moehoen went along with the change of topic, “When will the crown be passed, and the marriage take place?”

There was a brief moment of silence. After a quick glance to Emhyr and Ciri, Morvran cleared his throat: “A suitable date would be an upcoming festival. Yule or perhaps Imbolc?”

“Celebrations of renewal and fertility, certainly,” Duchess Eggebracht nodded. Something in Ciri’s yaw tensed, and Emhyr was sure he did not like the expression of discomfort that was ill-concealed under her nonchalance.

“Either representation would be fitting for a wedding. Yule perhaps more so for the crowning of a new Emperor and Empress,” Emhyr agreed tentatively, addressing his daughter.

Cirilla swallowed audibly: “Either is fine.” She looked down nervously. It was the only thing she had said in the last hours. Morvran looked thoughtful at her reply, and to Emhyr’s impression less than pleased.

“If either date is amenable to the Senate, the High Command, and the Guild, then perhaps we can consider what preparations need to be made and settle on a date within the … ah … the family?” the general ventured carefully. The respective representatives nodded that off, by all appearances glad to have the meeting over. Thus only the three of them remained.

“Should we make a decision now?” Morvran was the first to speak. Emhyr could understand his impatience. Morvran had risked a lot swearing his fealty to Cirilla, without legal certainty to reap the rewards. Any day the two were not married put the young man at risk.

“Yule,” Ciri said faintly, somewhat to her father’s surprise. He watched her face carefully, trying to make sense of her thoughts. “Let’s just get it … settled,” she added then, and he felt she had been about to say ‘over with’. Morvran’s expression did not inspire a lot of confidence in that moment either. If anything, Emhyr thought, having grown to know the young Voorhis rather well over the years, he looked hurt.

“General Voorhis,” he interrupted the awkward silence, “may I have a word with my daughter in private?”

Morvran nodded, stood, and bowed stiffly: “Cirilla, it was wonderful to see you. I will be glad to hear from you soon.” Emhyr accompanied him to the door, giving him a reassuring nod and courteous farewell, before he returned to his daughter’s side.

She had gotten up to stretch her legs as well, idly walking towards the window. Unsure how to proceed, he sat on the settee they had once amiably occupied together, the last day before the curse had pulled him under.

“I wish to apologise as well,” he began hesitantly, “for putting you into this situation, and also for the escalation of our conversation yesterday. I’m afraid my temper got the better of me.”

At that, her shoulders slumped and she gracelessly plopped down beside him: “You did not put me into this situation. Yen did.” Her eyes narrowed briefly. “As for the temper,” she then turned to give him a small wry grin, “I may have to blame you for mine.”

His eyes opened wide for a second, then narrowed again, the corners of his mouth curling up: “I will not deny that particular culpability.”

She snorted. They sat for a while, almost easily. There was something delicate he needed to ask, and it would have to be soon before the opportunity had passed. Thus he picked his words with the utmost care: “I am under the impression – and please correct me if I am mistaken – that you _chose_ to accept General Voorhis’s proposal, yet that the prospect of marriage worries you greatly.” He closed his eyes, praying that he had not offended her again. Given their history and his past mind-set, he felt ill-suited to broach the topic with her. Yet he equally felt he could not ignore it now.

When she said nothing, he dared look at her carefully. Cirilla still sat hunched over, chin resting on her fists. She had bitten her lip, obviously in some emotional turmoil. But she did not lash out like the day before. He waited.

“Since I can remember,” she began to recount eventually with a long-suffering sigh, “somebody has wanted me for what I am, rather than who I am. First you and your henchmen, then the Lodge, the Aen Elle. All to fulfil some stupid prophecy about my powers and my child. The Aen Elle actually managed to imprison me long enough to give it a serious try,” her voice wavered then, “- but it did not work, and since then I spent several more years running away from Eredin and the Wild Hunt. And when we defeated them, I thought that was finally over. I thought I could be a normal person, somebody who is liked for who she is.” She buried her face in her hands. “I never had a real childhood, and the most of it I ever got was from Geralt. To anybody else I was always, in some way, a means to an end. That is why I went away with him – to try and be that child; with just the two of us around: no worries, no fears, no running away. We had a home, you know, somewhere we went. A little house with a garden. He even got me a swing,” she drifted off for a moment, caught in the memory. Then she sighed, looking at him with eyes far older than her usual self: “But the truth is, I was still running.”

He had nothing to say in consolation.

But there was something in her tale that he could not place: “What do you mean, when you said the Aen Elle imprisoned you?”

“I ended up in their world once,” she explained, averting her face again, “and their king tried to make a child with me.” With a cold chuckle, she added: “But as I said, it did not work. He – could not.”

He swallowed dryly: “When was that?”

She turned more firmly away then, voice empty: “Before Stygga,” she paused, leaving his mind reeling. “When I said back then I knew exactly what you had planned for me, I…” she broke off, and he was glad for it. Her words tightened like a barbed wire noose around his heart. The sinking realisation that she _had_ understood his intentions all those years ago submerged him under a tidal wave of anger and shame. Something must have shown on his face.

“So you don’t need to treat me like glass,” she snapped him out of the memory, her eyes flaming and voice coarse. “I survived it with a century-old elven king, alone in a strange world, when I was only fifteen. I can handle the General.”

She tried to affirm this not to him, he realised, but to herself. The declaration fell short to alleviate his concern.

~*~

_3 nd Saovine, in Vizima, the Capital of Temeria_

 

“Have you come to stop me from talking, as you stopped Fringilla?” the blonde greeted the person trying to sneak into her house in Vizima’s merchant district. She was sitting in the dark of the large ground floor room, shielded by the back of her armchair.

“No,” was the neutral reply of Yennefer of Vengerberg, “Fringilla’s fate was inevitable once Emhyr returned. My involvement was an act of kindness, compared to what he would have done with her.”

“So you murdered her out of kindness, rather than say, to frame her and establish yourself more securely as Empress Cirilla’s advisor?” Keira scoffed, taking a sip of her apricot brandy. She relished the burn in her throat. “I wonder, then, what has brought you here, so silently, and in the middle of the night?”

“You hardly have a reputation for sleeping much – on your own, that is,” Yennefer said candidly, “I came to warn you.”

 “Warn me of what, exactly, or should I ask: whom?” Keira snorted, taking another sip. A wonderful odour, fruity, yet sharp.

“Rideaux is searching for you. Once he finds you, you will not be able to resist him.” Yen’s voice bore no friendliness, but then, they had never felt very sisterly.

Keira smiled viciously, letting the expression carry in her voice: “And it would throw up awkward questions, would it not, if I told him the Sorceress Supreme of Nilfgaard had led a plot to murder the Emperor – or am I mixing something up here?”

“That would be unfortunate, and yes, I would recommend against it,” Yen acknowledged coldly.

“Then what would you recommend I do?” Keira whispered sultrily.

Yennefer’s voice was getting closer; her heels clacked on the wooden floor: “I would recommend for you to lie very, very low. I heard you had a little house in Velen once. The country-side must be pretty in winter.”

At that, Keira frowned.

“Truly, I would recommend getting as far away from people as possible. Perhaps you can convince Lambert to shelter you in Kaer Morhen – but in all honesty, I cannot recommend making yourself dependent on a witcher too much. I’m sure you have come to a similar conclusion.”

A black velvet gloved hand came to rest on the back of the armchair.

“I understand perfectly,” Keira smiled, looking up to Yennefer’s hard face, “Which is why I hope you do not take this personally.”

In that moment a white flare circled all around them, and Keira lurched away from the armchair. Several voices bellowed and flashes of light shot at Yennefer, who disappeared in the midst of it.

“A pity, but quite – inevitable, did she say?” Philippa spoke dramatically, and bent to pick up a tiny black and white figurine. “Poor Yen,” she tutted, and slipped the miniature into a pouch on her belt. From the shadows of the room, four more sorceresses emerged.

 

 


	7. A Day Out

_A morning in Saovine, 1286, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers, during the last weeks of the reign of Kaer’zer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

An endless throng of well-wishing sycophants had kept him occupied for days on end. Aedirn this, Aedirn that. Military spending here, open trade routes there. He was grateful that Roche had returned to Temeria to handle the alliance with Anaïs. Tankred, he hoped, would understand the vagaries of rising to the throne of Nilfgaard well enough to give Morvran some time to establish himself, before their plans would be set into motion. Dealing with Moehoen was dreary, but doable. Their shared military experience gave them sufficient mutual respect to seek an agreement at the negotiation table. The same could be said for the Guild of Merchants. With the Lodge, however, he was less sure. Not only had the sorceresses fiercely opposed his person; they also had contacts in any northern kingdom. Most influentially, Francesca Findabair ruled over Dol Blathanna, and Philippa Eilhart effectively over Redania. They also supported his future wife. The marriage to Cirilla might ensure his safety; alternately the Lodge might still try to get rid of him by any means. The princess hesitation during the last round of talks at the palace disquieted him therefore to no small extent.

It was for that reason – mostly – that he had taken the time out of his busy schedule to seek her company. The letter inviting her to an outing near the capital had been carefully penned, none to elegant, but with respect. He was still uncertain how to treat her: she had responded badly for the most part of being addressed like a lady; equally treating her like a warrior was inappropriate. Sometimes she seemed like a wild horse to him, beautiful yet distrustful. Temperamental, dancing out of reach when one came to close. He might have appreciated the challenge in a context less urgent.

“Patience,” he told himself, his emotions tending more towards the opposite sensation. At least, she had accepted the invitation, albeit on her own terms. He had offered a picnic with the acquaintances he had introduced to her at the Saovine celebration, meant to take place at the Voorhis residence just outside the city. Since his parents’ relocation abroad at the end of the failed coup in his youth, the residence had been managed by his great-aunt Angusta. But the spry old lady preferred her town house over the country mansion, thus it remained unoccupied for most of the year. The estate was located by the river, thus a boat ride could take the two of them there. An innocent endeavour with a little time between themselves. Rosa var Attre and some of his most trusted soldiers from the Alba Division would guard and chaperone them, so that no busybody had any reason to object. Now Ciri was waiting for him, in the company of her witcher Geralt. Not that Morvran minded the man; in fact he found his story quite fascinating. Geralt of Rivia was a personality much underestimated and largely unrecognised by the commentators of their time, yet someone who had shaped the world they lived in. Today, it seemed he was shaping Morvran’s opportunity to spend time with Cirilla.

To his dismay, she appeared to be in a bad mood. A stormy expression marred her face, and she was barely polite in her greeting. Aboard the boat, the witcher wandered off to speak to Rosa, and suddenly he found himself alone with her, just as he had intended.

She folded her arms over her chest: “We need to talk.”

He swallowed, and offered her a seat, before settling down himself: “What is the matter?”

She almost seemed to growl: “The Lodge has been in contact with me.” That made him listen up a lot. “Fringilla Vigo is dead, ostensibly by the hand of Yennefer of Vengerberg. The Lodge has seen fit to stop her. The compressed figure of the sorceress will be delivered to the palace soon, apparently as a kind of peace offering. They propose an exchange: the expulsion of the Knights of the Flaming Rose from Aedirn, and consequent action against the excesses against mages and nonhumans by any order serving the Eternal Fire in the territory of the Empire.” She paused.

Their demands had been expectable, he considered, albeit not the apparent rift within the Lodge. Good to know. “Steep demands. What do they think to offer in exchange?” he deliberated.

“The approval of Guiscard Vermuellen’s crowning as King of Aedirn, and a withdrawal of Redanian interest from the Pontar valley, in addition to the supply of troops to assist Vermuellen to secure the country. As to the pacification of Aedirn, they demand a council in Vengerberg to negotiate a lasting peace, involving representatives of the sorcerers, Dol Blathanna, and Mahakam.”

He raised his eyebrows. Those terms seemed not entirely unreasonable. “Who delivered the message?” he wondered.

“I received a letter signed by Philippa Eilhart and Enid an Gleanna. Emhyr thinks it’s a good idea to negotiate,” she offered, forehead still furrowed, “But it may depend on what the Sorceress Supreme has to say for herself once we get her back.”

“Which options are you considering?” he probed carefully.

She narrowed her eyes at him: “For the Lodge? I think it may be a good idea to send Triss Merigold to Vengerberg. She knows Aedirn from the second war, and Vermuellen might need a capable mage at his side to establish himself as king. That should signal to the sorcerers that we take their demands seriously. Alternatively, Yennefer in Aedirn would put a clear limit to Philippa’s abilities to go against her own word and maintain influence in the Pontar valley. By maintaining the split between the sorceresses, we would reduce the risk of them banding together against us. But this could also be a disaster, if we cannot trust Yennefer. So it depends.”

“The Lodge is guilty for attempted regicide,” he gave to consider. Not in the least, they had tried to kill _him_ at sea.

She gave him a shrewd stare: “Guilty is who is proclaimed so, and as Empress I will be entitled to pardon as I please. Why make a powerful enemy if I can make a powerful ally?”

Also if she had the Lodge behind her that would give her an edge in any future disagreement they might have between themselves. But he preferred to keep that thought quiet. He suspected if she had not realised this, her father certainly had. Making the Lodge her ally before the marriage would ensure he could not object the negotiations with the sorceresses later.

“Do you agree we should negotiate with the Lodge?” she asked him, and he found himself a little appeased by the fact that she at least formally asked his opinion.

He nodded reluctantly: “I will need to familiarise myself with the details, but I can see the potential of mutual gain.”

“Good,” she got up and walked away from him. Beyond the baldachin the murky skies opened to a slight drizzle. So much for his picnic plans.

When they reached the estate, the ground was soggy. His acquaintances had withdrawn to the sitting room, were Thalia was playing the harpsichord with Eduart. Jan gave him a knowing smile, nodding his head over to them with a wink. The snacks were delightful, and Ciri seemed to appreciate the less formal company of people their age. Even Geralt, who had spoken to him briefly on the ship, seemed relaxed. He let himself be convinced to give Rosa another sparring lesson, to which Eduart and Jan were happy to join them. Edna and Thalia had become engrossed in political gossip. When Ciri asked him hesitantly if he wanted to spar with her, he accepted with equal caution. He doubted he would pose much of a challenge to her.

When she had beaten him well and truly after a few minutes – and he had to admit his pride was wounded – she offered him a hand up. Edna gave him a sly grin, obviously enjoying his discomfit. Waving off any jeers he strategically retreated to the roofed porch. To his mild surprise, Cirilla followed him after a few minutes. She put a basket down beside her.

“Pity with the weather,” she commented, leaning against the window sill next to him.

“I hope we did not bore you too much,” he joked weakly, making light of his own dissatisfaction. She shook her head.

“No, not at all. I like them, and it was good to get out for a day and spend some time with people, really. It’s a beautiful house you have here, too. Though I wonder if you would like to take a small trip with me,” she gave him a tiny smile.

“We are expected back at the palace by nightfall,” he pointed out, not sure what to make of her sudden request.

“Won’t be late. No danger, I promise,” she crossed her fingers demonstrably, then growing a bit more serious: “You will need to trust me that I won’t do anything… irresponsible, ok?”

He felt rather uneasy, but neither did he want to disappoint her. If she promised they would be back in time, he supposed whatever she had planned would not take them very far.

“Alright,” he assented, “let me call for the guard.”

Her hand on his arm stopped him: “That will not be necessary. Trust me?” she offered her open hand.

Something told him he was getting into trouble, but he could not possibly fathom how. Shaking off the feeling, he took her hand. She held on fast. Then, with a stomach-turning twist of … everything, he was thrown into a vortex of colours. Something green blinded him. Then, as quickly as it had started, the world stopped spinning around him. Shaken, he ripped his hand away, and she let him go.

“What is this?” he shouted, whirling around. He did not recognise his surroundings. Even the weather was completely different; icy cold, and sunny.

She held up her hands: “You are fine. We are on Ard Skellig, near Fyresdal.” Wincing at his horrified face, she sighed. “They do not call me the Lady of Space for nothing, you know. I can take you back anytime, I promise. You just need to say the word. But there is something I wanted to show you…”

The distress in her face made him pause. Pulse still a little too high, he took a moment to look around. Her explanation seemed credible. Looking down the long slope of the mountain side, he could see a village nestled into the bay. Long ships were swaying in the waves, anchored just off the coast. A dirt road led away from the village, along the coast side. In the distance, some children were playing with a ball. Seeing no other option, and in need of a moment to order his thoughts, he followed her along the road. A few hundred yards in front of them in the opposite direction of the village, he could see a few thatched houses, among them, going by the sign in front of the door, an inn. But Ciri led him up a narrow path instead, and when the trees opened, he saw a small house built against the hillside.

“This is where Geralt and I lived the last few month. It’s not much, but… I guess I am trying to show you where I come from, so that you understand how difficult it is for me to make sense of the court. So when I will make a fool of myself in the future, which is going to happen a lot, well…” she broke off, blushing a little, “there is sun in any case”, then she lifted the basket, “and some picnic stuff.”

He was still struggling to wrap his mind around what just happened: “You can – travel like this?”

“Hmhm,” she nodded, “to pretty much wherever I want, as long as I can imagine the place somehow.”

Shaking his head, he followed her into the house. It was small, only one downstairs room. A narrow staircase led to the upper floor landing, on which he spied two doors. Cirilla dug out a pair of thick woollen blankets from a chest.

“Here. I admit it’s not too welcoming right now, but it will heat up soon.” She opened the basket and spread out the food she had taken from Nilfgaard on the table. “Sit down.”

He followed her suggestion, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. She busied herself with lighting a fire in the cold hearth while he spread out the food. Then she put a kettle on before she joined him. It was rather plebeian, but oddly comfortable – _domestic_ really – to sit at the rough wooden table with her.

“I once travelled to a world with flying ships, you know”, she offered, and he was captured in her tales for the following hours. Not just places – whole new worlds suddenly opened up to him. Never had he imagined the scope of her experiences, the distances her magic had taken her. The idea left him lightheaded and full of wonder, almost like a child before Yule. He had not imagined that anybody or anything could have surprised him like that.

When she took him back to the palace courtyard late that night, he was still mesmerised. Escorting her to the doors, he was left unsure what to say to her. Gently lifting her hand, he breathed a small kiss onto it.

“Thank you for this rather incredible journey,” he admitted with shining eyes.

She rolled her eyes, a little pink in the face. It might have been the cold wind on the isles, but he wished it was not. “You are welcome,” she curtsied, and winked at him before walking away.

Only then, standing outside by himself, it occurred to him that she would become a part of his daily life very soon. Their journey had only just begun.

 

 


	8. Exposed

_An evening later in Saovine, 1286, Nilfgaard of the Golden Towers, during the last weeks of the reign of Kaer’zer Emhyr var Emreis_

 

The negotiations had taken another long day, but by the end of it the representatives had settled on a deal. The merchants in the Senate had reached their goals for open trade and land reform. With the promise of Redania to supply additional troops under Moehoen’s command, military presence in Aedirn had been strengthened without further expenses, which satisfied them all. In exchange, the new rulers of Nilfgaard had committed themselves to open negotiations with the nonhuman leaders, and to restrain the influence of the zealots of the Eternal Fire. An equilibrium between military, merchants, and the Lodge had been reached, which would hopefully coagulate into a durable balance of power. Ciri had found him in the gardens to share the good news, before she had dashed off again to freshen up. ‘Morvran’ was waiting, she mumbled. He decided not to prod her about _that_.

Instead the witcher gathered his courage and set out to find Emhyr. As expected, the Emperor had remained in his study, checking through the protocols the scribes had compiled from the meeting. Several scribes were taking notes around him, and Mererid was standing by the door, clearly awaiting orders.

“This formulation needs to be amended,” Emhyr instructed one of the scribes, marking something with red ink. Another few corrections were made, until Emhyr looked up to him.

“Witcher,” he acknowledged sardonically, “is there something you require, or shall I assume you merely wish to add to the décor? In that case I will have to inform you that your talents lie elsewhere.” Going by the mild sarcasm, the Emperor was in a fairly benign mood.

“I merely came to express my congratulations to today’s successes,” Geralt offered suavely, and added before he could rethink too much: “and perhaps to see if His Majesty has any plans for dinner?”

One of the scribes startled so badly he broke his quill. Hastily the man dabbed at his notes, shooting nervous glances to the Emperor. Emhyr did not react to the blunder, though he did raise his eyebrows at Geralt’s suggestion: “I beg your pardon?”

Geralt rolled his eyes, casually leaning in the doorway: “Dinner. You, me, food. Maybe a toast to Ciri’s good health? How does that sound?”

Mererid made a face like a man having his balls pinched by a mountain troll. Emhyr’s face did not betray much beyond complete incredulity, but the witcher thought he could read him well enough by now to see a certain amount of amusement.

 “Really, Emhyr. What does a monarch do around here to unwind?” he teased lightly, covering up his nerves.

The collectively held breath of his servants was cautiously relieved when the Emperor coolly informed his valet that dinner for two should be served in the small dining room in one and a half hours.

“I will see you there,” Emhyr dismissed him pointedly. On his way out of the parlour, Geralt could not fail to miss the disbelieving look on the valet’s face.

~*~

Dinner, it turned out, was a superb affair of five courses, most of which were not familiar to the witcher. Nevertheless, he tucked in with gusto and found much to his liking.

“The wine is excellent,” he offered as an awkward piece of conversation.

Emyhr rolled his eyes, shaking his head: “You have no humility whatsoever, do you, witcher?”

When Geralt looked at him in earnest confusion, Emhyr dragged the bottle from the cooler. The wet label read ‘Corvo Bianco Red, 1264’. The witcher – or perhaps one should say: the vintner – had the grace to blush.

“You did not recognise your own produce?” Emhyr asked with a frown, whereupon Geralt told him he had never gotten round to trying any of it.

“I have not been back to Toussaint much since that contract, and the vines needed to be replanted after some fungus, so there was no yield in the first years” he admitted, “Though it’s a beautiful place. I once had the thought of retiring there. Well, if I managed to retire. Witchers are not known to die of old age.”

The emperor nodded, sipping delicately from his goblet: “Neither are emperors, yet here we sit. You are nevertheless right, it _is_ a very good wine. You will become a rich man, if you can market it well. I suppose an order from the palace would greatly increase its reputation, and thus demand and price.”

Geralt shook his head: “Thanks for a leg up, though you can always have a cask for free. Just let my major domo know.” Emhyr gave him a look that conveyed some disrespect for his skills and attitudes as a business man, but the witcher did not mind. He poured the Emperor and himself another glass of his wine as they finished off their desert. Eventually, silence settled between them.

“Do you play any Gwent?” Geralt wondered, somewhat unwilling to call it a night, yet unsure how to make any conversation. They retired to a cosy private sitting room Geralt had not frequented before. As it turned out, Emhyr did play, and as in any of his conquests, be played brutally. In three games, his monsters soundly beat Geralt’s northern deck thrice.

“I yield,” the witcher huffed after that last game, and Emhyr put the cards away with a satisfied smile. By that time they were well into their second bottle, and the alcohol seemed to soften their moods enough to maintain the easy companionship.

“You are a very good player,” Geralt acknowledged honestly.

Emhyr inclined his head with a wry smile: “Thank you. I fear I do not get much opportunity to play these days, but I once greatly enjoyed this pastime. You play well yourself. A rematch would be welcome.”

Leaning back in his armchair, the witcher considered the man sitting across from him. If what he had seen in recent weeks was any indication for the workload the Emperor was usually shouldering, he could not have much leisure time. But any man would need to take a break to unwind some time, right?

“Honestly though,” he asked therefore, “what do you do for pleasure in-between ruling an Empire?”

Emhyr stared at him, wordlessly. Then he rubbed his eye: “There are a few activities seen as appropriate for a ruler to engage in. Hunting is first among them, but as you may imagine, I am rather loathe to partake in such sports.” It had never occurred to Geralt, but knowing the urcheon’s history, it made perfect sense. “Otherwise, there are banquets and courtly entertainment.”

“Sounds like all work and no play to me,” the witcher offered, and the other huffed in grudging assent.

Then, with a slight look of awkwardness, Emhyr wetted his lips: “I am somewhat fond of taking a soak after a long day. The Ophiri have a wonderful culture of bathhouses. I employ some very skilled experts in these arts.”

Geralt found himself intrigued. When he asked about those arts, Emhyr appeared slightly abashed, but suggested a demonstration would do more good than any description. The convenience of being the Emperor of Nilfgaard was that such arts were available at a whim, and thus the bathhouse was readied for them despite the late hour of the evening. In the apodyterium, Geralt unclothed himself but for a sarong wrapped securely around his waist. Emhyr was attended by two servants, and the witcher did not catch sight of him until they both walked down the side of the cold pool, and towards the large heated stone dais in the back of the building. Two lightly dressed servants were already waiting, armed with buckets of water and various oils and soaps. The witcher followed instructions to lie down on his back. A rolled up towel was provided as a pillow. The servant, an older Ophiri woman with wide hips and strong hands, then began to scrub his whole body with salts and brushes. Once in a while, a bucket of warm water was emptied over him to sweep the foam and exfoliated skin away. Eventually he was asked to turn, and the same treatment was applied to his back, followed by a deep oil massage. With a satisfied huff, he turned his head to regard the Emperor, who was enjoying the same procedures a yard away on the other side of the platform.

Emhyr’s eyes were half-closed, the head bedded on his arms and the face turned to him. When Geralt offered him a smile, the other man cautiously smiled back. He closed his eyes and groaned softly when the servant kneeling above him twisted her elbows deeper into the muscle between his shoulder blades. There were no words necessary to convey just how good Geralt thought this art was. He was pretty sure Emhyr had no trouble either reading it off his blissful face.

Eventually, and with pleasantly tingling skin, they both trotted over to the warm pool. Almost dozing, still slightly intoxicated and pleasantly relaxed, Geralt plopped into the water, whereas Emyhr remained seated against a pillar, dangling only his legs. For once, Geralt took his time to truly look at Emhyr. The Emperor was a tall man, broad in the shoulders, and generally striking an imposing physical presence. But seeing him now, almost in the nude, made the witcher realise that a good deal of the bulk of his usual appearance was contributed by the padded long doublet, and what likely were several layers of clothing. Without them, Emhyr was lean and pale, only lightly muscled as any man who spent more time at a desk than anywhere else. The softness of his figure was interrupted by the stark bones of his shoulders, the slight curves of ribs over his slim waist, and the noticeably protruding hip bones framing the soft curve of his belly, where a thin trail of hair disappeared below the sarong. Geralt had to admit he was not bad looking. The sudden insight made him close his eyes in vague embarrassment.

“Odd how we find ourselves in this very place again,” Emhyr’s low rumble broke the silence.

Geralt grunted vaguely, peering at the Emperor who was sliding himself into the water after all. Emhyr’s face suggested the man was mulling over something. His eyebrows were drawn together, yaw tense. He licked his upper lip: “I find myself curious to the magic you used to… calm my dreaming self. It is a witcher sign, yes? Axii.”

Somebody had done their research. Geralt nodded: “It is a mild form of suggestion. Enough to fool a guard or tell a scoundrel picking a fight to bugger off. That kind of thing.”

Emhyr mustered him closely: “I would care for a small demonstration, if you please.”

“What kind of demonstration?” Geralt asked cautiously. He’d rather not make a human puppet dance, even though he probably could. But Emhyr surprised him with a rather different request:

“I would like to experience the sensation again, on an entirely harmless suggestion, I may add.”

“Why?” the witcher narrowed his eyes.

Emhyr looked at him balefully: “To understand what this magic can do, and my own reaction. It seems unwise to leave such a potential unchecked.”

So that was his motivation. “What did you have in mind?” Geralt wondered out loud.

Emhyr tapped his chin: “A small demonstration of your power. Make me do three acts: nothing objectionable, more like picking up a certain item around me. I will try to resist. Each sign should increase in strength, unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Fine,” the witcher huffed. It occurred to him that this might be a bad idea, but who was he to deny the Emperor’s request. He cast the first sign, very weakly: “Touch the tip of your own nose.”

Emyhr’s eyes narrowed in concentration, but he did not move. Geralt had not expected him to.

“Another, at average strength,” Emhyr demanded.

The witcher flicked his hand a second time: “Pick up the pear from the tray.”

There was a tray of snacks within arm’s reach of the pool. Emhyr’s head whirred around, and he certainly tensed with the effort to arrest his movement. “Take a bite of that pear,” the witcher suggested authoritatively, gesturing a third time for a full-on piece of magic. The emperor swallowed, eyes glazing over, and began to reach for the fruit. His fingertips caressed over the soft skin of the fruit, when he froze and panted harshly. Pushing his energy into the sign, Geralt held on until the emperor’s fingers closed around the pear and shakily picked it up.

“Eat,” the witcher whispered, coming to stand right behind the emperor. Emhyr’s hand shook, slowly lifting the pear to his mouth. The witcher heard how his teeth pierced the fruit, smelled the tart sweetness of its juice. Geralt dropped the third sign, and gently touched the other man’s ramrod straight back.

With a sudden motion, the Emperor chucked the pear away. He breathed in harshly, then exhaled slowly and deliberately: “You undersell your abilities, witcher.” Emhyr turned to face him, a peculiar expression in his narrow amber eyes.

“Few men manage this as well as you have,” Geralt admitted slowly. Emhyr’s shoulder was warm and soft under his palm, and hesitantly he let his hand linger. The gust of a deep exhale brushed over his wet shoulder. Unlike before, their near-nakedness brought all kinds of sensations that Geralt had never considered previously. Emhyr smelled of salt, and lavender oil, and that sharp scent which Geralt began to suspect was unique to the man himself. And his skin, the witcher realised with a twist of his guts, was as soft under his hand as it had looked; warm, and smooth, and terrifyingly thin over the curve of his collarbone. “You will never need to fear me.”

At that utterance, Emhyr’s eyes darkened: “And you expect me to trust your word?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged simply, holding the gaze.

At last, Emhyr sighed and stepped back: “I suggest you never exert this capability on me again without my explicit permission. Otherwise I’ll have you hanged. Although,” he hesitated, apparently conflicted about something, but then closed his mouth. A sliver of something vulnerable crossed his face, followed by a deep frown. If Geralt had to bet anything, he thought it resembled Ciri’s expression of self-contempt an awful lot.

The Emperor looked vulnerable under the witcher’s gaze, and in that moment something powerful stirred in his guts. It was not a sensation as plain and simple as attraction. No. Holding onto Emhyr had sent a tingle through his spine that spoke of rightness, a sense of belonging that felt almost possessive. Protective. Against all expectations he might have held until a few weeks ago, Geralt found he _cared_.

 

 


	9. The Most Precious Gift

_Sunset, the last day of the rule of Kaer’zer Emhyr var Emreis of Nilfgaard_

 

Somehow the days of Saovine had passed like a swarm of birds: a good deal of them hit you in the face, and you were squinting behind your raised arms, disoriented by the onslaught. Before you knew it, they had flown past.

As custom would have it, the passing Emperor had withdrawn to the silence of the sanctum, and laid down his symbols of office as the sun went down over the city of Nilfgaard: the chain of office, the signet ring, the gold-hilted ceremonial sword. He had remained in prayer to the seasons of the sun, and let go of all worldly possessions. Clothed in simple white robes, he was escorted from the sanctum once darkness had fallen. In the morning, new twin suns would rise and take up the symbols of ruling. A second set, commissioned by the finest masters of the capital, was already waiting together with the inherited items.

It was the last night he would spend in the royal chambers of the palace, which on the morrow would pass to Cirilla. Perhaps it was a good time for things to change, he thought, walking into the Emperor’s parlour for a last time. Mererid had prepared a simple meal for him, once more following custom. He was just about to start on the stew and bread when the door burst open and two more people came in uninvited, carrying plates of the same food.

“If you are very upset about us flaunting tradition, we can leave again,” his daughter announced, giving him a bold grin. The witcher behind her just shrugged his shoulders innocently. Mererid’s face, to Emhyr’s amusement, was stuck half-way between maudlin indulgence and offended propriety. He gently dismissed the loyal valet, and waved for his brat and the witcher to sit.

“I hope you don’t mind the company,” Geralt had the grace to ask, looking slightly guilty. Had it been the witcher’s idea to invade his space? Emhyr found he truly did not mind. He might even appreciate the company.

They ate in relative silence, with only Cirilla asking a question or two to double-check she was well prepared for tomorrow’s ceremonies. She seemed nervous, but not unduly so, as he was pleased to discover. They had prepared everything diligently, and with Mererid’s and the var Attre sisters’ friendly support, Cirilla had grown more confident about the protocol. Cirilla and Edna had formed a bond quickly. Emhyr had expected his daughter to favour Rosa, since both had a fondness for sword fighting and putting their foot down in direct ways. Edna, meanwhile, was a politician to boot. Her influence, within checks, might help Cirilla learn the subtle arts of courtly power plays from someone closer to her age, someone more easily approached in some matters that perhaps he himself. Chewing on the last spoonful of his meal, Emhyr found it might be a good occasion to share his last decree as Emperor with them, when Ciri spoke first:

“We uh, we have a proposition for you,” she cleared her throat self-consciously, “or a surprise, if you will.” When he raised a slightly sceptical eyebrow, she added: “It won’t take very long, but we never found time to do it, and I will have even less time in the coming weeks, so we thought we might just as well do it now … since, well, we could.” Geralt nodded next to her, a strange expression on his face. Was it – apprehension?

“A surprise?” he asked carefully, and she nodded indecisively.

“A brief journey,” Geralt added in explanation.

“Brief?” he frowned, somewhat confused. The pointed gaze of the witcher towards Cirilla helped to clarify.

She fidgeted: “I would take us all three. I promise it is perfectly save, and we won’t be any longer than you are comfortable.”

Magic. Despite a slight tingle of nerves, he was prepared to trust her on this. Notwithstanding a general apprehension, his curiosity had been piqued: “And this… journey we are making, where does it lead?”

She bit her lip, looking to the witcher: “It was his idea – I am only the transport, really.”

Emhyr moved his questioning gaze respectively. There was a brief pause, which made him slightly uneasy about what was to come.

“To the cemetery of Daerlan. I thought it might be,” Geralt allowed awkwardly, his voice low and expression rather sombre, “something you couldn’t do so easily by conventional means.”

Out of the blue, he felt quite speechless. Naked, in fact. Ciri looked away, although she did not seem particularly bothered. With narrowed eyes, he gauged the witcher’s expression, and found nothing but the man’s honest concern. Oddly apprehensive, yet deeply touched, he mutely nodded his assent. Rising from the table, he asked Mererid to bring their cloaks. Geralt requested two torches on top, and went to get is and Cirilla’s swords just in case. He returned in full armour, self-consciously explaining that they would not want to take any chances, despite not anticipating any danger. In the garden, they both held onto Cirilla’s hands. He was about to inquire what to expect from the journey, when they were thrown into a whirlwind of colours and blinding green light. Perhaps that was the first time she truly reminded him of her mother.

They did indeed reappear in a cemetery, just inside the gates on a broad gravel path. He was briefly occupied wondering how she was able to travel to a specific location, but before he could ask, he was distracted by a noise in a small house nearby. Somebody was opening the door, possibly the cemetery keeper, and Geralt quickly pulled him into the shadows behind a crypt.

“Best not cause any attention,” the witcher muttered into his ear. Cirilla remained with him while Geralt disappeared to find the right tomb. They did not speak, and it seemed to him they were both more comfortable that way. It did not take long for the witcher to return. He appeared right out of the darkness, his white hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“That way,” he offered, and led them through the dark. Coming to stop in front of a beautiful old marble crypt housing the remains of the Lords and Ladies of Daerlan, the witcher opened an iron gate – by force rather than finesse, it seemed, but Emhyr was content to overlook the matter. There was a brief, nonverbal exchange behind him, and then Cirilla produced three roses he recognised from the palace garden. Wordlessly, she offered them to him. Wrapping his hands around the stems, he inevitably pricked his finger. It did not matter. Hesitantly, he offered one flower back. She gave him an earnest, sympathetic smile, and took one, before ducking inside the crypt. He followed after a moment of steeling himself. It was dark inside. Suddenly a torch flared behind him, and the witcher followed them into the confined space. On a pedestal in the back, they could now make out a clean, white clay urn. The engraving read: _Viscount Peter Evertsen of Daerlan – beloved departed, always remembered_. It was beautifully plain. Ciri’s rose was laid down on the pedestral, and she stood for a little while, deep in thought. Then she gave his arm a comforting squeeze, before ducking outside again.

Emhyr could not move. He felt himself rooted to the floor, hand clenched around the stalks of the flowers. He barely noticed the sting of the little thorns. With an exhale, the witcher came to stand close beside him, and wrapped one big arm around his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he uttered at some point, lost in time.

“Let us know when you are ready,” the witcher replied and briefly caressed his index finger over the urn, before walking away.

He was not sure how long he stood there, by Peter’s remains, in the flickering light of the torch that was left in a niche in the wall.

“I still miss you,” he admitted silently to the grave. He imagined Peter’s spirit rolling his eyes at him, as he had been wont to do on numerous occasions. “And I am grateful for the time we had. And I … I love you, and I hope you knew that.” His eyes prickled then, and he had to swallow.

‘Of course I did, you great fool’ the imagined spirit seemed to huff with fond, gentle exasperation. He did not think to question if Peter had loved him too. Peter had said it in every touch, every smile and kiss. Carefully, Emhyr placed his flowers down by the rose Cirilla had left. A drop of blood fell onto the white clay of the urn. Absentmindedly, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and wrapped it around his hand.

“They are waiting for me, you know. Tomorrow will be an important day - you would have liked to be there, see the dawn of a new time” he added. In the dark of the crypt, Peter did not answer. He was gone.

 “Goodbye, my lover,” Emhyr whispered into the emptiness. Then he pressed a last kiss onto the urn and left.

~*~

The Emperor had asked them to stay once they had all returned to the parlour. From a locked cabinet, to the growing curiosity of his onlookers, he procured a document and small box.

“I meant to leave this for you to find as a surprise gift, to cheer you up on your first day of office,” Emhyr spoke cautiously, addressing Ciri, but briefly glancing at the witcher too, “but perhaps now is the better time.”

He placed the document onto the desk facing them. They read, and while Geralt was still trying to make sense of the formal Nilfgaardian script, Ciri looked up abruptly beside him: “Really?” she asked in breathless wonder, and when Emhyr nodded with a small, tense smile, she squealed and ran around the table to hug him tightly: “Thank you, papa!”

Emhyr looked taken aback in a bemused sort of way, an expression Geralt found he could grow to appreciate on his face more often. Ciri had meanwhile rounded the desk again, and hugged the witcher too. Then, to his confusion, she babbled something about needing to tell the news to Mererid, and disappeared through the doorway.

“I – I am not sure what to say,” Geralt admitted when it was only the two of them left, still trying to comprehend the meaning of everything, “Does this - really make her my daughter?”

Emhyr shook his head enigmatically and gave him a pointed stare: “I had assumed that _you_ of all people would value sentiment more than formality. This decree, however, does indeed officialise the law of surprise in the eyes of the Nilfgaardian Tribunal, and thus makes it appropriate to formally refer to her as your daughter.”

Something big moving in his chest made the witcher speechless: “I really don’t know what to say…” he mumbled, still completely caught off guard.

Emhyr averted his gaze with a smug grin, voice carefully kept level: “Consider it a testament of my profound gratitude for keeping her safe her whole life, and my… growing esteem for the difficulties of doing so.”

“You don’t need to give me anything for that, you know that, right?” the witcher shook his head, smiling, but Emhyr frowned. Before the other could respond, Geralt added: “Because you already gave me the greatest gift of my life, right?” Maudlin old fool that he was for saying it out loud. There was a slightly embarrassed silence.

“The document still requires your seal,” Emhyr coughed, and pointed to a blank space at the bottom, right next to the blob of red wax imprinted with the imperial seal of the golden sun.

“Uh, I don’t exactly have one…” he started, when Emhyr rolled his eyes and pointedly flicked the little box over to him. With apprehension, Geralt picked it up and opened the small lid. Inside, nestled in black velvet, he found a golden signet ring, embossed – he held the ring against the light of a candle – with the emblem of the wolf school surrounded by the rays of the Nilfgaardian sun.

“I took the liberty to assume you might appreciate a reminder of your school,” Emhyr muttered, and Geralt was quick to reassure him with a hasty nod. Together they found some more sealing wax, and for the first time, Geralt used his signet ring to … to become a father. If he had to rub his eye, it was surely the late hour.

“I-”, “I-”, they both started, and Geralt shut up to let the other speak.

“Tomorrow will be a long day, it – it really is time to retire,” the Emperor yawned in a curiously well-timed manner. The document was quickly put away in a locked drawer. Together they walked out of the parlour, parting in the hallway.

“I will see you tomorrow,” Emhyr nodded, a certain lightness to his voice and posture.

“Sleep well,” the witcher answered fondly, watching the man slowly shut the door behind him. Then Geralt retired to bed himself, and fell asleep promptly, with a big smile on his face.

 

 


	10. Where the Swallow Flew (Act Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks again for all the comments and kudos! You are awesome. This is the end of the fourth act. I have material in my head for one, possibly two more sequels, but I don't think I will get there very fast. I DO however have a little 3-chapter interlude semi-written that will go nicely with "Illustration #1"... *very subtle hinting* ... which will be published in the near future.
> 
>  
> 
> So long, on to the epilogue...

_Meanwhile, certainly not in the rooms to which Princess Cirilla was said to have retired to:_

 

He flinched and almost threw over his ink well when she appeared on the balcony in a burst of green light. Exhaling deeply, he wondered if he would ever get used to it. Rising from the small desk in the bedroom of his town house, he opened the balcony door for her with an admonishing stare:

“You do realise that it is extremely unbecoming for a bride to be wedded on the next day to be gallivanting across town, appearing on men’s balconies and demanding access to their bedrooms?”

She snorted and brushed past him into said bedroom. Plopping down to sit on the side of his bed, she raised one eyebrow meaningfully: “You did voice such concerns already when I demanded access to your bedroom the last time.” With a teasing smile, she crossed her legs and leaned back on her elbows.

He closed the balcony door, and double-checked the one to the hallway was locked as well. Then he slowly strolled over, crouching next to her legs and deftly pulled off her boots: “Perhaps I should have voiced concerns, given the high treason I would have committed had I succumbed to the licentious advances of Her Highness.” He grinned and crawled onto the covers next to her.

She let herself drop back onto the pillows to face him: “Really? We might need Her Highness to pardon your sorry arse rather quickly, because I fear otherwise my dear General might be convicted as a repeat offender…” she suggestively breathed against his lips, and he wrapped his hands around the back of her head to kiss her thoroughly.

A fortnight ago she had appeared in the same place, making the most audacious demand of him: “I refuse to wait in my marriage bed like a fearful maiden ripe for the plunder,” she had thrown against his head. He had actually snapped at her then, pointing out that she was making him into a demon he neither was nor ever wanted to be. That had shut her up for about five minutes, until she more civilly asked for his attentions a second time. How mutual anger and frustration had turned into tentative intimacy, he could not quite say in retrospect, but he blamed the furious fire of her eyes, the disdainful curl of her reddened lips, and her rather profane order to ‘get the stick out of his powdered arse’ before she would do that for him. He had accommodated her eventually, and two hours later they had lain in his bed, clothes mussed and lips tingling

Now she appeared a lot calmer, her cheek resting on his shoulder while she was curled against him: “I wanted to tell you something, actually,” she mumbled against his shirt, leaning back enough to be able to look at him. He raised his eyebrows in question.

“I am going to have two fathers from now on,” she grinned, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling with joy. 


End file.
